


And Hell Followed With Them

by Kryptaria, roane



Series: The Four Horsemen [1]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies), Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Strike Back
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-19
Updated: 2013-02-10
Packaged: 2017-11-26 01:19:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/644948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kryptaria/pseuds/Kryptaria, https://archiveofourown.org/users/roane/pseuds/roane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five years after the zombie apocalypse, four British soldiers have finally made their way home to England, where the British Government is still in business.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Four Soldiers Walk Into A Post-Apocalypse Bar

**Author's Note:**

> A gift for forsciencejohn based on the prompt: “I would like to request a fic with an alternate meeting for John and Sherlock— John is at a bar enjoying leave from his military service with his fellow soldiers when he meets Sherlock, who is working a case.”
> 
> Special thanks to BootsnBlossoms, Jennybel75, Otter, and Roane for the beta, encouragement, and the loan of John Porter.

Watson pushed aside the curtain and ducked through the low doorway, machine gun held at the ready. Two steps led down to a floor of pallets. He could see algae-infested ooze underneath, and he carefully kept away from a ragged half sheet of plywood covering a hole. Might’ve been accidental, or it might be an easy disposal method.

Nobody had got around to cleaning out the old sewers. Nobody actually gave a damn.

He looked around, surveying the crowd. One-armed bartender, muscled to make up for the lack. Three men at the bar, in workers’ coveralls, done in slate blue. They weren’t crisp and neat anymore, but nothing was. The tables were half-empty; two occupied deuces, an old plastic picnic table with a party of six, a tall single in the corner at a table for four.

No one looked undead. Not particularly _alive_ , either, but no one these days was. They were all just surviving.

“Clear,” he called back over his shoulder. He slung the machine gun, cradling it against body armour that had started out desert brown five years ago. Now it had been blackened with whatever was at hand, and the tan showed through only at the edges.

As his three mates followed him inside, he went up to the bar. The floor oozed unpleasantly in a couple of spots, muck burbling up over a pallet that looked as new as anything did these days. The patch job wouldn’t last without cement bricks to support the wood up out of the wet, but that wasn’t Watson’s concern. By the time it rotted through, he and his mates would be long gone.

“You got trade?” the barkeep asked as he came over to Watson. He leaned his one arm on the bar; it shook ominously. He tried not to look intimidated by the four soldiers. He failed.

They could’ve taken everything. No one was armed with anything that would get through their body armour, once they dropped the faceplates on their helmets, and Watson could patch up any incidental wounds. They had more to fear from the swamp where the bar was built than any of the men inside.

Watson put down two watch batteries, still shiny silver, still in the old blister packs. The French writing on the package was impossible to read; all the dye had faded from the sun. He’d picked up a hundred of them three weeks back, before they’d headed into the Tunnel.

The barkeep nodded. He swept up the batteries and said, “Sit. You’re taking up space.”

Hiding a grin, Watson quirked a brow at their de facto commanding officer — not that chain of command meant shit anymore. With a snort, Sev turned and headed for a table near the single. It was a table for six, which meant they could put their packs down, away from the floor.

They arranged themselves to cover all sides out of habit. They hadn’t seen any of the Risen for two and a half days, but it paid to not take chances. The fucking Tunnel had been packed, and they’d expended half their ammo fighting through, though they’d lost Shark anyway. Watson had held him off with the crowbar at his belt long enough for Porter to saw through Shark’s spine and drop the new-Risen.

“Not the Ritz,” Sev murmured.

Watson kicked him under the table. Porter let out a huff of amusement. Cray looked confused.

“Christ. You’re too young,” Sev said dismissively. He looked across at Watson. “We should check it out.”

“Don’t be an arse, Commander,” Watson said. “Probably looted in the first days.”

The bartender came around with four mason jars that held what looked like it might be beer. The soldiers had long since stopped being picky, though Sev still bitched at every chance, just cause none of them had the rank to shut him the fuck up.

When the bartender was gone, they picked up the jars. Quietly, Sev said, “Shark.”

“Mickey,” Watson said.

“Ed.” Cray nodded.

“Goldman,” Porter finished.

The list could have gone on. Once, it did, until they realised there were too many dead. The night Drake ate a bullet, they changed their tradition. One survivor, one memory.

Together, the four survivors drank to their dead.

 

~~~

 

When the soldiers came in, Sherlock moved his hands from his chipped ceramic mug to the pockets of his ragged greatcoat. He had two compact pistols hidden away, though he hoped he wouldn’t have to use them. There wasn’t much ammunition left in the world, and it would be a losing battle. The soldiers were too well-armed, too well-armoured. Too competent.

The one who entered wasn’t their leader. Second in command, perhaps, since he made the decision to call the others in, rather than going back outside to report.

No, the leader was slightly taller than the first one, eyes hidden behind sunglasses. Not as broad-shouldered as one of the others, but broader than the first one. Big hands meant for killing. He was a walking armoury: machine gun slung across his chest, shotgun over his back, two pistols, knife that could double as a parrying sword. Sherlock didn’t doubt that he had even more weapons hidden away.

The second in command was more lithe, or as lithe as could be, in body armour. He carried the same model machine gun as the first, but only had one pistol and a crowbar for backup weapons, at least openly. His black-dyed uniform shirt had a square of loose threads where he’d ripped off a patch — a perfect square, not a rectangle that might be an old nation’s flag.

The third was as tall as the leader and qualified as skinny even with the body armour. From what Sherlock could see of his shadowed face and narrow chin, he looked young and fine-boned. Not a typical soldier; Sherlock would have guessed him to be in a support role, though he’d obviously been quick to master combat skills. He had a dark beard growing in, probably to add to his age. He was too pretty to be walking around unarmed and unescorted, these days. Just looking at him made Sherlock uncomfortable with his own appearance. He’d had one too many close calls himself.

The fourth was tall, with hawk-sharp eyes and a dark five o’clock shadow. There was something regally composed about him despite the squalid surroundings. His machine gun was accompanied by a hatchet on his belt and a length of pipe across his back, with a makeshift handle of padded tape. His voice, when he spoke a single word, was a deep rumble, too soft for Sherlock to properly hear.

Slowly, Sherlock eased back in his seat and allowed his attention to return to watching the door. The four soldiers didn’t seem likely to cause trouble just yet. If they did, there was a chance that they might respect the identification badge Mycroft had insisted he carry. They didn’t have the feral, magpie-like look of looters about them. For all the alterations to their uniforms, they seemed neat enough and well-disciplined, capable of fending off trouble without the need to stir up excitement of their own.

 

~~~

 

The food had what looked like meat in it. Watson speared a piece with the fork taken from his mess kit and teased the fibres apart before he nodded. “Looks clean,” he said very quietly to the others, and bit it off his fork. It tasted gamey and tough, like it had been dried and then boiled for too long, but it was meat. They’d been living on emergency rations for the last four days.

They ate in comfortable silence. They’d already long since said everything they had to say. Occasionally, they might reminisce, to fix in their minds some treasured memory so they could recapture the details, but they passed most days in silence.

The food wasn’t good, but it was hot and filling. Watson wondered how the barkeep could find or barter for the fuel to keep it heated. He hadn’t seen any sign of a solar rig or reflectors when he’d scouted the shack.

When the curtain at the entryway rustled, all four soldiers looked up. The skin on Watson’s neck crawled, but he kept his eyes fixed to the back of the shack, just in case the curtain’s movement was a distraction. Across the table, Sev and Porter sat up abruptly, and Sev’s hand shifted under the table.

 _Shit, shit_ , Watson thought, leaning back in his chair. “Think it’ll rain tomorrow?” he asked Sev in a code that had nothing to do with the weather.

“It’s likely to start right the fuck now,” Sev said in a low, dangerously cold voice.

Watson twisted in his seat and saw a man had entered and gone to the bar, followed by a bodyguard and two small, pretty captives — one male, one female. The bodyguard could’ve been one of their squad, though he had legit urban camo rather than makeshift. His visor was down, but he was turned to face their table.

The barkeep was leaning over the bar, talking in quick, quiet tones to the first man. Watson didn’t know if he was negotiating as a buyer or business partner — not that he actually gave a damn. By not throwing the slaver out, the barkeep had signed his own death warrant.

Then their view was abruptly blocked as a tall, gangly bloke in a coat like flapping bat wings put himself in the line of fire. The one from the corner table, Watson identified. He was filthy and scruffy, but he looked like the type that would clean up too nicely for his own good, just like Cray.

“Mind if I join you?” he asked. Probably wanted protection, Watson figured, which was fine by him.

Sev, who was just as overprotective as Watson, told him, “Sit.” He pointed to the seat at the end of the table, between himself and Watson — and out of the line of fire.

The tall bloke gave a smile that didn’t reach his eyes — and what the fuck colour were his eyes, anyway? Something like blue or teal or silver all at once. God, those eyes would add to his price. Damn unlucky for him. Watson had no idea why he wasn’t hiding them with sunglasses.

Under the table, a foot tapped his, twice. The tall bloke came around and sat as Watson gave Sev a quick nod. He passed the signal to Cray, who covered his own nod by taking a drink of weak beer.

Plan B, Watson thought, flexing his shoulders. He always did love a good brawl.

 

~~~

 

They were going to do something. Sherlock knew it; he could feel the sudden tension crackling through the air around them, even if they appeared credibly relaxed and at-ease. But _what_ were they going to do? This was a disaster in the making. God, why did all soldiers have to think with their damned guns?

Sherlock leaned over to talk to the one who was in charge, thinking he could put a stop to any pending violence with a few choice words, but he hadn’t realised how quickly they’d move..

“I got it,” the second-in-command said as the two lower-ranked ones went to rise. The leader took advantage of the distraction to push his chair back two critical inches, giving him the room to stand unimpeded later.

Everyone subsided back into their seats, and now they’d all adjusted their machine guns to be more easily grasped. Sherlock grudgingly admitted that they were good. Used to working together. And — aha. The second-in-command palmed something as he fished around in his backpack.

“You have a name?” the leader asked, turning in Sherlock’s direction. He still wore his sunglasses, a not-uncommon affectation these days.

“Victor,” Sherlock answered, giving his most common cover identity.

“Seven. Porter. Cray,” he said, indicating himself, the dark-skinned one, and the skinny one across the table. Then he nodded over towards the bar and added, “3C.”

“Hey,” Porter said, giving him a nod. When he turned to watch their second-in-command, Cray looked at Sherlock with a nod of his own.

They really were good. They seemed casual and comfortable, but they never left their fourth, 3C — and what the hell kind of name was _that?_ — without someone watching his back.

“Hey. A little service here?” 3C called, rapping his knuckles on the bar, holding up another watch battery, similar to the ones he’d paid with earlier. He was on the other side of the three workers in coveralls, well away from Sherlock’s target. Perhaps he’d misread their intentions?

The bartender looked over and opened his mouth to shout a response. His small eyes all but disappeared under his frowning brows.

3C dropped the hand holding the battery. His other hand came up, now holding the pistol that had been holstered at his left hip, and he aimed it at the bartender.

The three workers backed away. Two of them kept hold of their glasses, either intentionally or by accident. All three went for the door — along with everyone else in the bar — and everything happened at once.

Under cover of the three fleeing workers, Cray moved, striking like a snake unexpectedly uncoiling from the shadow. He had a long knife, and was heading right for the bodyguard, a man who Sherlock thought was named Moran, but he wasn’t positive; he’d never been seen without his helmet’s face shield in place.

A gunshot at Sherlock’s right made him flinch in surprise. Seven had fired one perfect shot at the bodyguard’s right shoulder. The bullet impacted an instant before Cray did, fouling the bodyguard’s shot. Three bullets passed a good inch to Sherlock’s left, crashing through the corrugated tin wall of the bar, shredding it like tissue paper.

The gunfire was loud now, with Porter and Seven firing cautiously on Moriarty, who’d pulled one of the slaves in front of him as a shield. Silently cursing the bloodthirsty idiocy of overtrained post-Rising soldiers, Sherlock ducked behind Seven — no sense not taking advantage of his body armour — and wondered how the hell he was going to explain this to Mycroft.

 

~~~

 

Watson’s first shot took out the bartender. His second clipped the slaver, but the man was ducking out of sight. Worse, he had hold of one of the slaves, and had a pistol leveled at Watson. Diving for cover, Watson snapped his face shield into place and duck-walked along the side of the bar, keeping out of sight. He heard other shots at his back, including a three-shot burst of automatic fire that had to come from the slaver’s bodyguards; none of Sev’s soldiers were about to rip off like that and waste ammo.

Trusting the others to keep the slaver occupied, Watson circled the end of the bar and ran in a crouch, rising three steps later, when he guessed his angle had changed.

The slaver was protected from forward-fire; the slave looked unharmed. Watson fired without hesitation, putting a round high into the slaver’s shoulder, making him shriek in pain and surprise. Grinning fiercely, Watson vaulted up onto the bar so he could fire a second shot, this one tearing through the arm holding the slave. They fell apart, and Watson barked at the girl, “Get to cover! don’t run!”

The girl bolted. Watson didn’t turn to watch. The slaver was raising the gun in his good right hand, turning to shoot Watson at point-blank.

Someone — Sev, probably — turned his hand into shredded meat with a perfectly placed round.

Trusting that the slaver was incapacitated, Watson looked to the bodyguard. His black and white urban camo had turned black and red, and Cray was twisting his knife to work it out from under the dead man’s unprotected jaw.

“Clear!” Watson yelled, and heard three identical responses. The civilians had cleared out — all but the tall bloke who’d come to them for protection. Porter, Watson saw, had the other slave against the wall, shielded by Porter’s bulk and body armour.

Watson hopped down and looked at the slaver. Sev came up next to him, followed by their civilian. Reaching up, Sev removed his sunglasses. His light blue eyes were cold.

Backing away, Watson took hold of the civilian’s sleeve. “Get out while you —”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” the civilian snapped, jerking his hand free. He reached under his coat.

Instinctively, Watson raised the pistol still in his hand. The civilian stilled for a moment. Then, with exaggerated movements, he pinched the lapel of his overcoat between two long, pale fingers and drew the fabric aside. Underneath, he wore the remains of what had once been a nice black suit with a dark purple shirt.

“I’m Secret Service,” the civilian said, slowly lifting a thin black wallet out of the inside pocket.

_“What?”_

Sev twitched in surprise. “3C —”

A bit reluctantly, Watson moved to cover their prisoner. His heart pounded. Secret Service meant the government might still exist, in some form — or the tall bloke had found a body, dead or Risen, and stole the warrant. He didn’t dare let himself hope too much. Anarchy sat poorly with all of them. They were soldiers, not mercenaries, but the chain of command, outside their ragtag section, had fallen to shit almost four years ago.

Movement at his feet made him focus his attention on the slaver. Watson gave him a hard kick in the side of the knee and resisted the urge to waste another bullet. “You’re not bleeding out yet, so stop whinging.”

“You’re making —”

“A big mistake, yeah. Heard it all before.” This time, the kick probably broke the two short ribs on the slaver’s left side. Once, back when Watson had been a proper doctor, he would’ve felt sick doing this to an injured man. That was before he’d seen the worst of his fellow humans.

Some days, he thought the Risen were more human than the survivors were.

 

~~~

 

“It looks real,” Seven said.

“Of course it’s real,” Sherlock snapped. “If you’re _actual_ British soldiers, you’ll honour that warrant. If not, you’ll take what you want, get out, and leave me to my work.”

“Which is?”

Somewhat smugly, he answered, “Classified.”

Anger flashed in Seven’s eyes — a very clear, hard blue, Sherlock noted. “Try again,” Seven warned, subtle enough that he didn’t openly reach for any of his weapons.

Sherlock ignored the implicit threat. Instead, he looked from one soldier to the other. Porter had protected the slave who’d been left unattended. Now, he and Cray were both searching the dead bodyguard — dispatched _very_ efficiently by Cray’s knife. They might’ve just been looting the body, but Sherlock suspected they were looking for the wrench that would unbolt the shackles on the two slaves.

And they’d kept Moriarty alive. Why? The placement of their shots had been intentional — incapacitating and painful, yes, but not fatal.

They could be preparing to interrogate Moriarty, to find out where he kept his wealth — trade goods, supplies, and slaves, of course. These days, money had no value. These days, even precious metals were often abandoned by travelers who needed room for more water, rations, or weapons.

Finally, Sherlock made his decision. Mycroft would hate him, but he had so few opportunities to irritate Mycroft — at least ones that didn’t involve reanimated body parts left in strategic desk drawers at Thames House II.

“I’m not authorised to answer,” Sherlock said, “but I can take you to someone who is. Just keep Moriarty alive.”

“Does he have other slaves?” 3C asked, turning a bit, though he didn’t quite look away from his captive.

“Quite a few. And they’re well-guarded.”

“Well. That’s all right, then,” 3C said, and it sounded like he was grinning. “Care to play at being the white knights, Commander?”

“Delighted,” Seven said. He shoved the warrant back at Sherlock and barked out, “Let’s move. Cray, help 3C with the prisoner. Porter, are our guests staying with us?”

Sherlock turned and saw that they’d unshackled the slaves. Cray threw one set of chains to 3C, who holstered his pistol and crouched beside Moriarty. “They have information we need,” Sherlock protested when Porter held open the curtain and gestured the slaves out of the bar.

“They’re free to go,” Seven said in a warning tone.

Sherlock considered protesting, but he gritted his teeth and let the two run. He had Moriarty. That would suffice.

 

~~~

 

Watson breathed a sigh of relief when the tall bloke gave off protesting. They weren’t about to shoot a civilian, but Sev wasn’t above giving him a good crack in the skull to silence him. Once Watson had their prisoner secured with his own shackles, he called Cray over. “Keep watch,” he said, indicating both their prisoner and the tall troublemaker.

Cray nodded and walked over to the prisoner. He looked in Sev’s direction as though tempted to say something, but in the end, he stayed silent.

“Sir.” The formality was unusual in their group, but it caught Sev’s attention. Sev nodded and gestured Watson out of the bar.

One good thing came with the virus that destroyed civilisation: lots of fresh air and water, these days. Watson took a deep breath and climbed up the embankment to the crumbling road. Potholes were forming everywhere, tilting some of the abandoned, looted cars on their flat tyres.

“If he’s right,” Watson started.

“If it’s a trap?” Sev countered.

Watson shrugged. “When has any of this shit been safe, the last five years?”

Sev looked back, and Watson knew he was thinking of Cray. The thing between them was serious — as serious as it had been for Watson and Mary, only look where that had ended up. They were all going to die. They knew it, and they knew it would come sooner rather than later. It was just a matter of when, where, and how.

“We can check it out,” Watson offered. “If it’s bullshit, we move on. Head to Skyfall.”

Sev took a deep breath and turned his face up to the overcast sky. “Be good if it’s real, though.”

“That was my thought.”

“I’ll send him out to you,” Sev finally said. “If it’s bullshit —”

Watson grinned. “Bloke that skinny, I won’t even need the crowbar.”

Sev snorted a laugh and picked his way back down the embankment to the murky shack. Watson kept an eye on his surroundings, looking for signs of Risen. London had a fair population of living, but that just meant there were more people to infect. It was the empty areas that were generally the safest, but even in the dead zones, they’d been surprised once or twice.

Their pet civilian came out quietly. He walked up the muddy wooden ramp, scratching at his beard, brows drawn in an unhappy frown. “You’re going somewhere — the four of you. You have a goal.”

Had Cray and Porter let him eavesdrop? “How do —”

“All four of you are in desert-issued gear. You were stationed a quarter of the way around the world, and yet you _walked_ back to England. You came through the Tunnel, which implies a level of urgency. There isn’t a boat to be found for a thousand miles — not one that your commanding officer would trust, given his experience in the Royal Navy.”

“How the fuck —”

“One Royal Army, two SAS, one Royal Navy. Subtle differences in your uniforms. You” — Sherlock ignored Sev’s shocked, dangerous look and nodded at Watson — “you were a combat medic. RAMC?”

“Christ,” Watson muttered. He went back to surveying the surroundings, hands gripping his SA80 a little more tightly. “All right — What’s your name again?”

“Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes.”

That wasn’t the name Watson had heard earlier, though admittedly he hadn’t been paying much attention. Still, he put out a hand, and Sherlock clasped it with long, cool fingers, free of calluses or scars. Despite the scruffy beard, his hands were clean under the nails. He lived soft, or at least comfortably.

“So how did —”

“Why are you —”

They both cut off, glancing at each other. Sherlock gestured for Watson to continue.

“How did you know? About us?”

“Your uniforms, as I said. You —” Sherlock tapped Watson’s arm, where he’d ripped off the red cross badge. “Square badge of a medic. You took the first aid supplies, rather than distributing them, which means you’ve checked their kits and are satisfied they all carry sufficient emergency supplies — or you’d rather hoard the supplies for yourself, but that’s not you. You’re too cautious with their lives. Your placement of the bullets, when you shot Moriarty, was precise, avoiding any substantial risk of him bleeding out. You have the small, steady hands of a surgeon — minimal scarring shows that you’re careful not to risk your fingers.”

Watson couldn’t help but laugh — a rusty sound of genuine humor, rather than resignation to an unwanted fate. He hadn’t truly laughed in months, since their comm specialist, Mary Morstan, had fallen to a swarm somewhere in the old East Bloc states.

Sherlock grinned as if delighted by the sound. He leaned in close and asked, “Want to know how I identified the others?”

“You _really_ didn’t... I dunno, look at our files or something? If you’re really government —”

“That’s ridiculous. How would I know a mixed group like you lot would show up precisely at the same bar where my target planned to meet with a buyer?”

Watson grinned and almost said he was right, but then he looked up, searching Sherlock’s face. He was damned good looking, or would be if he got rid of the scruffy beard, and Watson’s thoughts took a very inappropriate turn, given that he was practically a complete stranger.

“Why do I get the feeling that if anyone _could_ predict that, it’d be you?”

Sherlock blinked in surprise. Then he smiled almost shyly. “You’d be right.”

“Could be useful,” Watson hinted. If things didn’t work out with this so-called British Government, he wouldn’t mind having Sherlock around. If nothing else, he didn’t seem boring.

Sherlock’s eyes lit up at the implication. “Want to find out?”


	2. Thou Son of Hell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ENORMOUS thanks to Kryptaria for letting me (okay, hijacking me) to play in this world. I'm super excited about this! Also thanks to her, thisprettywren, bootsnblossoms, and jennybel75 for beta and encouragement. And the fantastic antidiogenes crew, who got me to finish this chapter.

The makeshift bar was in shambles--well, truthfully, Porter thought, it had been in shambles before the fight had broken out. Now it was worse. The tin walls had new holes punched in them, letting in what was left of watery daylight. Tables were overturned. There were two bodies on the floor, one dead, one wounded. Neither theirs. The fight had left them with the slavers' two victims, chained and frightened, and one civilian, who was already threatening to be a pain in the arse.

Sev and 3C were together by the door, and Cray was undoing the shackles on the two slaves, who took off as soon as they could. Porter followed to the door and watched them bolt down the street. They were both too young and too pretty by half. They might last a week on their own. Two if they were careful.

_The girl was Lexi's age. She could be--_

He snapped the curtain closed with the finality of slamming a door and turned back to the nearly-empty bar. When Sev and 3C stepped outside for a conference, he exchanged glances with Cray, who was hovering over the slaver like he was waiting for the chained man to so much as twitch. Sev was right about one thing: Cray was too young. He still wanted to prove himself, not knowing that he already had, just by surviving.

The civilian--if Victor was his real name, Porter'd eat his helmet--stood quietly, not showing any outward sign of nervousness. That was enough to convince Porter that his story, at least was true, even if his identity was false. The man wore the same level of arrogant invincibility that Porter had come to associate with men who thought they knew everything and thought they pulled the strings.

Sev stepped back in and sent the civilian out to talk to 3C. It was a good choice. Of the four of them, 3C was the one with actual people skills that didn't require threats of bodily harm.

"So what's the plan?" he asked Sev.

"If he's telling the truth, we make contact," Sev said, picking up his pack. "If he's not telling the truth, we fall back on the original objective."

"Do you think he's telling the truth?" asked Cray. He made no move for his own pack, staying by the prisoner. Sev tossed it over to him, and he caught it easily.

"Buggered if I know," Sev said. "Watson will get the measure of him."

Porter envied the three of them their easy trust of each other. He trusted them to have his back, to not kill him in his sleep, but that was battlefield trust. What he saw went deeper, and reminded him that he was the outsider, the Johnny-come-lately. Still, if it weren't for them, he might not have made it back to England. And he definitely wouldn't have made it through the Tunnel.

The truth was though, Porter didn't give a shit about making it to Skyfall. He didn't expect to be alive that long.

****

~~~

****

The five of them found shelter on the first floor of an abandoned building. They were three days out from the bar, and this was the first real chance they'd had to stop for more than a few hours. Their armour was piled next to them with their packs, but everyone kept their weapons close at hand. It was as close to relaxed as they ever got.

From the looks of it, Watson figured the ground floor of the building had been made up of shops in better days--long since looted--and the upper floors were offices. Moriarty they bound to a column nearby, and after offering him a bit of food, gagged him and put the hood back in place. He was, unless Watson missed his guess, feigning sleep. Sherlock and Cray had their heads bent over a map of London, arguing the best route to take to their objective.

"So what the fuck has the government been doing during the last five years?" asked Sev.

"What have you been doing for the last five years?" Sherlock looked up, leaning back on his pack, stretching his long legs out to one side.

"Surviving," said Sev.

"Well, that's what the government's been doing," Sherlock said.

Any sort of fire was out of the question, but Sev did allow for a lantern and they sat huddled around it like it was a campfire. Sherlock had rations of his own, better than theirs by far, lending further credence to his story. Even Porter's face had softened a little at the sight of a chocolate bar, which Sherlock shared out without a question.

"All we need are marshmallows and some ghost stories," said Cray with a crooked grin. He was leaning to one side on his elbow, his head nearly resting on Sev's arm.

"So there was this guy, he woke up one morning and found out that all of his neighbors had died overnight. Only, they were still walking around. And they were hungry," said Porter. His face was a perfect deadpan.

"Right, I imagine none of us needs a ghost story these days," said Watson, verbally stepping in. "So, Sherlock, what did you do Before?" No one ever had to say 'before what'.

Sherlock's eyes glittered with cool amusement. "What makes you think I wasn't always Secret Service?"

"Because no one is what they were Before," said Sev, and Watson was pleased to see that Sherlock's smile didn't fade.

"I was a consultant," Sherlock said, and Porter snorted. "And you lot? I know the what, but I want to hear about the how. None of you served together."

Cray lifted his head. "What makes you say that?"

"Obvious," Sherlock said. "You weren't in the field. Engineering? 3C over here," Sherlock smirked at him, and John couldn't help but grin in return, "was a doctor. Seven was Royal Navy, most likely SBS. And Porter was solo ops."

"He _did_ read our fucking files," Porter said, uncoiling from the partially relaxed position he'd been in. "This whole thing stinks of a set up."

"Oh please," Sherlock said. "If I were setting you up, would I sit here and tell you everything I knew about you? Think." Porter bristled and straightened further. Watson didn't have to be Sherlock Holmes to read proffered violence in that stance.

"Oi, Porter. Stand down." Sev leaned forward, glaring at him. Porter met his stare and Watson could see the back and forth power struggle, two pairs of pale predator's eyes locked together until Porter looked away first. He stood with a jerky motion, pulling his body armour on and fastening the straps before slinging on the improvised blackjack and the hatchet and picking up his gun.

"Where are you going?" asked Watson.

Porter flicked a look towards Sherlock and said, "Solo ops." Then he said, "Going to check the perimeter of the building. It's about the right time of night."

Risen activity was always higher at night, and while the first floor gave them a bit of an advantage, Porter was right to watch for any intruders. He strode off into the darkness.

"Sorry," Watson said, more to Sherlock than anyone. Sherlock shook his head.

"He hasn't been with you long, has he?"

Sev interrupted, "If you two are going to sit here talking, take first watch. 3C, if Porter's not back in an hour, you know what to do."

Watson nodded. "Yeah."

Sev and Cray both stood up. John knew they'd end up sharing a bedroll, but nobody would talk about it. Since Mary, no one talked about that sort of thing anymore.

Once they were out of earshot, Sherlock asked, "What do you do? If he doesn't come back?"

Watson smiled slightly. "Assume the worst. And if he does come back after that, it may be a case of shoot first, ask questions later."

Sherlock moved around the circle of lantern light until he was sitting beside Watson. He nodded in the direction of Sev and Cray. "They're..."

Watson nodded. "If you've got a problem with that, I recommend keeping it to yourself."

Sherlock laughed, a low rumble of a chuckle that threatened to rearrange Watson's insides. "And what about you? Are you and--"

"Porter? Oh god no." Watson looked up at Sherlock and flashed the grin that he was pretty sure had earned him his nickname. "Asking for any particular reason? I'll warn you though, he'll break your heart."

"Mm," said Sherlock. "He's really not my type."

"What, you want to keep the market cornered on 'tall, dark, and handsome'?" Watson teased.

"Handsome?" Sherlock kept his voice low, just enough for Watson to hear. "Are you pining over him? Or did you mean me?"

Watson had almost forgotten this, this sense of lightness. There wasn't much room in his day-to-day life for flirtation, and he found that he'd missed it. It didn't matter if it was one-sided, or if the bloke next to him would have been out of reach before. It felt good to smile again, to tease. It felt human. He leaned forward, giving Sherlock plenty of time to pull away. "I don't pine." He closed the last gap and kissed him.

When the kiss ended, Sherlock was smiling. "You never did tell me your real name."

"You didn't tell me yours at first either."

Sherlock reached up and tugged at the collar of Watson's uniform shirt. "You weren't about to offer me a shag then."

"Who said anything about offering?" Watson grinned and let him undo the top button.

"Your _name_ ," Sherlock rumbled, pulling John closer.

"Fine. John Watson."

"Come here, John Watson."

****

~~~

****

Porter walked the perimeter of the building, counting footsteps in his head while he scanned the ground outside. His thoughts eased away with the activity and he could breathe again. The girl's face wouldn't entirely leave his mind, the combination of fear and relief when Cray unfastened her shackles. She might have been fifteen, if that. If Lexi was still alive-- _Alex, she's Alex now_ \--she'd be seventeen.

Considering the fate of the girl today, and others he'd seen like her, Porter wasn't sure some days if he hoped she was still alive or not.

A flicker of motion caught his attention, and he looked to the pavement, lifting the gun to half-ready. Risen, seven of them, were gathering near the building's entrance. He waited for a few heartbeats to see if they were serious about entering. They were. Whether they knew--for whatever passed for knowing in their rotting brains--that there were humans in the building, he couldn't be sure.

He stepped back from the window, stepping back towards the 'camp'. When he was close enough, he hissed, "Incoming!"

There was no answer, but he heard the sound of weapons being checked and men standing. "Where?" That was Sev, the first to reach him.

"The bloody front door, where else?" said Porter.

"How many?"

"Seven. All pretty fresh." Fresh meant trouble. Fresh meant more strength in limbs that hadn't weakened with rot. Fresh meant slightly higher intellect in brains that were mostly intact.

Sherlock was fastening buttons on his shirt, with 3C was a step behind him, pulling his armour on over a shirt with a few undone buttons of his own. Typical. Bloody typical 3C, to try and shag the first living civilian they'd stumbled on.

"Did they see you?"

"I don't think so," Porter said. "Hell, I don't know, maybe they _smelled_ us."

Sev nodded. "RIght. You take point. Cray, you're with the civilians. 3C, we'll flank the stairs."

Cray opened his mouth to argue, but Sev cut it off with a look.

"I'm capable of defending myself," said Sherlock, drawing a pair of SIG P238s from his coat pockets, the pistols almost laughably tiny in his hands.

"Fine," said Sev. "Then stay here and defend yourself. Cray, watch the prisoner."

The three men crept towards the stairs in the darkness as Cray extinguished the lantern behind them. Porter could hear the shambling footsteps in the debris on the ground floor. The stairwell was easily defendable, assuming the Risen even discovered the stairs.

When the first Risen showed its head below them, Porter fired. The Risen-- _what the hell_ \--the Risen ducked. Risen didn't do that. Ever. Porter saw it raise its own weapon with only a split-second's chance to dive for cover. He fell backwards. "They're not Risen!"

The enemy fired, and Porter heard a grunt and a curse to his left. 3C. Porter dove to take cover beside him, but didn't spare him a look---he was dead or he wasn't, and there was nothing to be done about it right now. Adrenaline sang in his tendons and thrummed in his bones. He swung around and fired from cover and was rewarded with the sound of a body--a very solid and whole body--hitting the tile below.

Across from him, Sev was firing shots of his own, and with another string of curses, 3C managed to get off a few rounds towards the attackers. Not dead, then.

It was over in minutes. Gunsmoke wafted across the stairwell, the bitter tang filling Porter's mouth like blood. Sev crept from cover and looked down the stairwell. "You said there were seven?"

"Yeah."

"There's only three down there," Sev said. Just then they heard the sound of shots being fired behind them.

The three of them fell into formation and ran back towards the sound of gunfire, the familiar sound of Cray's SA80 mixing with the shorter, sharper report of the civilian's pistols.

The sounds stopped before Porter and the others got there. The lantern flickered on and Cray held it up, doubled over and panting. "They took him."

"Moriarty," said Sev.

"No," said Cray. "They tried. But no. They took Sherlock instead."

From the column where Moriarty was tied, there came a high pitched giggle that made Porter's skin crawl. 3C was on Moriarty in a flash despite the blood trickling from his thigh, pulling off Moriarty's gag and grabbing him by the collar. "Where are they taking him?"

Moriarty laughed again. "How should I know? Maybe they were slavers. Your boyfriend is _awfully_ pretty." 3C shook Moriarty and thumped his head hard against the column.

"You know. They were after you first." He raised his hand to strike Moriarty.

"Captain." Sev's voice cut through Moriarty's laughter. 3C let Moriarty's collar go and stepped away, favoring his injured leg and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "See to your wound."

3C attacked the medkit next, rattling around supplies as he pulled out gauze and tape.  Porter cradled his SA80 and schooled his face to impassivity. He'd seen what was developing; he wasn't blind. He wasn't stupid either. Finding an occasional shag was one thing out here, but he'd seen 3C lose Mary and couldn't believe anyone would willingly walk back towards that sort of pain. Sev and Cray were another matter, for all that Sev tended to shove Cray to the back of any skirmish.

"Porter." Sev's voice brought him back and called him over to the conference he and Cray were having. When he stepped over, Sev said, "Cray knows where Sherlock was taking us. We can still get there with Moriarty." The reason for the sidebar conversation then. 3C wouldn't be onboard with the plan.

"And him?" Porter tilted his head towards 3C, who'd shucked down his trousers to clean what looked like a flesh wound.

"He'll follow orders," Sev said. Porter had his doubts, but said nothing.

"What do we do now?" asked Cray. "We can't stay here; they'll be back."

"We're not going out into the streets, not at night," Sev said. "We'll stick to the plan. Rotate watches. Everyone sleeps when they can. If they come back tonight, we'll be ready for them."

"Such a bunch of pretty, pretty boys," cooed Moriarty. "Did you know, in some places you can fetch a higher price for a slave who'll fight back? They'd love you lot. Especially the little skinny one there."

"And for fuck's sake, put his gag back on," snapped Sev.

****

~~~

****

_"Dad!" She was clinging to him and sobbing into his shoulder the same way she did the last time he'd been home. He held her close, burying his face against the top of her head. She hadn't changed at all--how was that possible? He'd been gone for six years. It didn't matter; all that mattered that he'd found her, and she was safe. She pulled away and gave a watery laugh, wiping at the shoulder of his uniform shirt. "I got mascara on you."_

_He smiled then and kissed her on the forehead. "You're too young to be wearing it anyway." He cradled her face in his hands and just looked at her. Her resemblance to Diane was stronger than he'd remembered. She frowned as he wiped away the tears and eye makeup from under one eye with his thumb. "What's wrong, Lexi?"_

_She held up one of her arms, one of the arms that had been around his neck just a moment before. The sleeve of her shirt was in tatters and blood was pouring from the wound, but not fast enough to conceal the clear shape of human teeth. "Why didn't you stop it?"_

_Faster than he could react, the expression on her face started to change. Clear blue eyes--like his, she'd gotten those from him--clouded and darkened, and confusion was replaced by slack hunger. Lexi bared her teeth at him and hissed, darting forward like a snake striking. He pulled the SA80 from his back and stumbled out of reach, trying to aim--_

****

~~~

****

Porter jerked awake, not certain at first if he'd screamed or not. He tried to steady his breathing. The nightmare was coming nearly every time he closed his eyes now. No matter how many times he reminded himself that it wasn't real, he woke with bile rising in his throat. Collinson's last message was clear: "Taking the girls into the bunkers. Come home when you can." Collinson was a bastard, but if anyone could have kept Lexi safe all this time, it was him.

The lantern was dimmed, but there was no movement beyond the flicker of the light. He struggled up onto his elbows and wiped the sweat off his face, waiting for his heart to stop trying to escape from his chest.

"You okay, mate?" 3C was just outside of the light, standing watch.

"Fine," Porter said, then cleared his throat of the gravel. "Fine. You need me to take over? I'm up for a while." Likely for the rest of the night.

"No, I'm good. Go back to sleep."

Porter laughed soundlessly and sat up. "Can't."

3C shuffled his feet. "Nightmare?"

"I'm fine," Porter repeated.

"Suit yourself." 3C didn't say anything for several moments, then said, "Because we all get them, you know."

"I know. Drake used to wake me up with his screaming." Porter pulled his knees up and rested his elbows on them. "It's fine. Really."

"Your kid?"

"Just fucking drop it," Porter growled. He looked around the dimly lit circle and frowned. Something wasn't right, and he couldn't put his finger on what it was. "Hey. What happened to your pack?"

"Hm? Oh, it's over here with me," said 3C, and he sounded too casual by half. "Figured I'd inventory the medkit while I was sitting here."

"In the dark?" Porter said.

"I can see okay."

Porter rolled to his feet and walked over to where 3C was keeping watch. He was in full kit, from his armour to his boots, and his pack wasn't open, it was closed. "Oh you stupid fucker," Porter said. "What do you think you're going to do?"

"What? Nothing. What do you mean?" The man was a terrible liar.

Porter kicked 3C's pack hard enough to make it rattle. "Were you just going to run off and leave us with nobody standing watch? Or didn't you think that far ahead."

3C stood up then, and for all that he came up barely to Porter's chin, the fierceness in his eyes almost made Porter take a step back. "You heard Moriarty. You know who has him. Slavers. Fucking slavers. And we're just going to go on our merry fucking way like nothing happened? That's bullshit and you know it."

"If he's that bloody important to the British government, someone will try to get him back." He pulled himself to his fullest height and glared down at 3C. "Now sit the fuck down and in the morning I won't tell Sev you were about to desert."

There was a tense moment when Porter thought he might have to knock 3C down, but then 3C's shoulders slumped and he sank back down against the pillar, resting his head on his knees. "Anybody ever tell you what a fucking prick you are, Porter?"

Porter grinned and clapped 3C on the shoulder. "It's been a few hours, but yeah. Go on. Go get some rest. I'll take over."

****

~~~

****

They packed silently and efficiently in the morning, eating a scant breakfast. They'd have to find additional rations soon, although whether that would be easier or harder in London, Porter wasn't sure. No one mentioned Sherlock. They just bundled up Moriarty and headed out of the building.

Barely one hundred yards from the front door, something hissed in the air over their heads, then clattered to the pavement. Moving as one entity, the four men dove for cover, Porter hauling Moriarty with him behind a rusting, derelict car, but nothing else was forthcoming.

A single arrow lay on the pavement. "Nice to see people are adapting new ways to kill people," said Sev.

Cray crawled towards the arrow on his elbows.

"Get back here," hissed Sev.

"There's something on it," said Cray, retrieving it and retreating back to cover. "It's a note. Well that's quaint."

"What's it say?" asked Porter. Moriarty was smirking at him, the bastard.

" _His_ people." Cray nodded towards Moriarty. "They want to make an exchange." He scanned the paper--there was something they hadn't seen much of these days, paper. "Daybreak tomorrow. There's a drop location here. We could make it in time." His eyes flicked towards Sev.

"Out of the question--"

"That's perfect--"

Sev and 3C overlapped each other. Then 3C charged ahead. "Come on. We could spring him, you know we could."

Sev stood up, signalling that they could all break cover. "We could," he said, "but we're not going to." He strode down the pavement, and they followed.

3C jogged to catch up to him. "What do you mean we're not going to? We've done it before. Have you forgotten Lashkar Gah?"

"That was different."

Porter pulled Moriarty along behind him, letting Cray bring up the rear. He could only see the back of Sev's head, but knew from the set of his shoulders that 3C was going to lose this argument.

"Different how?" 3C demanded. When he got his teeth into something, he was a terrier on a rat.

"Leave it alone," Sev said. "We're not making an exchange. We're not making an extraction attempt."

3C stopped mid-stride and grabbed Sev by the upper arm, spinning him. "What the fuck is wrong with you? If it was _him_ ," he jabbed a finger at Cray, "we'd be halfway to the bloody drop by now. So what's the difference?"

Porter had faced down death a hundred times, even before the world went to hell, so he knew it when he saw it on a man's face. 3C was treading a minefield, and didn't much look like he cared.

"He's not one of ours! He's a fucking civilian who's going to get himself killed sooner or later anyway."

"Is that what we're reduced to now? To hell with anyone who isn't us?"

" _Captain_ ," growled Sev. "Let it go. That's an order."

"Yes, sir, _Commander_ ," 3C spat, and fell back into line.

****

~~~

****

They made good time, and by lunch had covered maybe three klicks of straight-line distance, easily one and a half times that actual distance, between dodging looters and keeping an eye out for Risen and for Moriarty's men. The tension from the morning never really drained away. Any time anyone spoke to him, 3C gave monosyllabic responses, if he gave anything at all. They broke for lunch, and moved with the ease of routine, however strained the silence was. Sev kept watch to give them a chance to relax, and Cray took charge of Moriarty, pulling him away to let him take a piss in relative private--which was more than Moriarty would have done for any of his prisoners.

Instead of opening fresh rations for lunch, 3C was poking at the remains of his breakfast when Porter walked over to him. Porter could read his thoughts because they were thoughts he'd had himself: what did the chain of command even mean anymore? Here they were at the arse-end of civilisation, with no threat of discipline, no fear of discharge or court martial--so what did it matter?

"You'd only get yourself killed," Porter said, gratified to see 3C startle. He dropped into a crouch, rubble beneath his boots crunching as his weight shifted.

"I'm not going to do anything stupid," said 3C. His eyes said differently though, and Porter just arched an eyebrow at him. 3C put down his lunch and pinched the bridge of his nose. "What would you do, if it were someone you cared about?"

"There isn't anyone I care about," Porter said. "Not like that."

"But if there were..."

Porter shook his head. "There's not. And besides, I'm not our only doctor." He glanced at 3C's pack and knew that's where he'd stashed the note. "But that's not going to change your mind, is it?"

He didn't say anything, but the muscles working in his jaw gave Porter his answer. He did a quick calculation. 3C was a doctor, not trained for what he was about to try, and he was injured. And tough though he might be, there was no way he'd manage an extraction on his own. Shit. "Give me the drop location."

"What? No. Cray has it."

"You stupid sodding git. I saw you lift it when he took Moriarty to piss. If you get yourself killed, we're all as good as dead. Give me the fucking location." He held out his hand.

"He's not your responsibility."

"Jesus fucking Christ protect me from men who think with their dicks. Give me the location. You don't know what you're going to walk in to. I do."

When 3C just glared back at him, Porter shook his head. "You'll thank me for this later." He straightened to his feet and hit 3C with a hard right to the jaw, knocking him to the ground. With a glance over his shoulder, Porter rummaged through 3C's pack, quickly finding the note with the transfer directions. He pocketed it and grabbed his pack, then walked away from the makeshift camp.

****

~~~

****

Someone was shaking him, and Watson wished they would stop. He felt like his teeth were rattling around in his head.

"John. John!" No one called him John anymore. He struggled to swim up through the murk. "Come on, sunshine, up and at 'em."

Watson opened his eyes and wished he hadn't. Sev was leaning over him, shaking him by the shoulder. "I'm fine," he said. "I'm fine." His head ached, but there were no other new injuries that he could tell.

"What happened?" asked Cray. "Where's Porter?"

 _Porter. Ah, hell._ John sat up slowly and let the world spin for a bit. "He's gone."

"What do you mean gone?" asked Sev.

"Cold-cocked me." Watson forced himself to meet Sev's eyes. "Took the drop location with him."

"He's going after Sherlock?" Cray handed him a canteen, and Watson took a careful sip of the brackish water.

"Think so, yeah."

"Whose idea was that?" Sev's voice was frigid.

"His," said Watson, not flinching.

"Did I or did I not give a specific order?" The tone in Sev's voice made the little reptile part of Watson's brain want to drop into fight or flight mode.

Cray cleared his throat. "It was very specific, actually. You told 3C to drop it. He did. You didn't say anything to Porter."

Watson scrubbed at the back of his neck with one hand. "He kept me from doing something really stupid, Sev."

Sev smiled, a predatory flash of teeth as he crouched in front of Watson. "Stupid like what? Stupid like running off to rescue a civilian alone?"

Watson nodded. "Something about that stupid, yeah."

"That's pretty fucking stupid," said Cray, but he laughed.

"Come on," Sev said. "We're wasting daylight. Either he'll make it or he won't. Nothing to be done about it now." He held out a hand to Watson and helped him to his feet. "Cray, get Moriarty. We're leaving in five."

****

~~~

****

Porter didn't expect to find much trouble, traveling alone. No one would mistake him for an easy mark, and if they did... well. They'd learn. He hadn't paid as much attention to the map as Cray, but he knew London fairly well. And he knew the location Moriarty's men had given them. There were any number of places in London where one might house slaves or prisoners, but if Porter were looking for the perfect location, he'd choose an abandoned police station. And it just so happened there was one about three blocks from the drop location.

He stopped shortly before sunset to scout a place to stay for the night. There were signs of heavy Risen activity in the neighborhood he was passing through, but there was nothing for it. Townhouses lined the street--at one point, this had been a genteel, posh area. Now there were broken windows and spray-painted sigils and warnings everywhere.

People still lived here. He saw more than one pair of eyes looking warily out of boarded up windows at him. A wrong move towards the wrong building would likely see him shot as a looter. The townhouse on the end of the street looked more neglected than the rest. The boards over the windows were falling off, and the front door was loose on its hinges. It wouldn't be the safest place, but it was better than trying to stay on the streets in the dark.

It was the first night he'd spent alone in nearly two years. Given how much time he'd spent alone prior to that he hadn't expected it to be difficult. Turned out he was wrong. No matter where he sat, his back was exposed--an occupational hazard, but he'd grown accustomed to having someone there to watch it for him.

Porter sat watching out the window of the first floor, eating sparingly of some dried meat from his pack. Tomorrow he'd need to look more carefully for more supplies. As he watched the last of the daylight leave the sky, he could imagine the other three sitting around the camp lantern, or even a fire, if conditions allowed. Cray would start, because he always did.

_"Toilet paper," he says._

_"Oh you'll never see that again," snickers Watson. "That's gone the way of satellite telly and the dodo bird."_

_"Still," Cray says mildly. "Toilet paper."_

_"A hot shower," Watson says._

_"England," Sev says, because that's what he always says._

Porter cradled his rifle in his arms and settled in to watch for the night. "Alexandra," he murmured, even if there was no one around to hear.

 


	3. To Kill By Sword, Famine, and Plague

Sherlock woke with a start, wincing at the vicious crick in his neck. His first impression was one of darkness, of heavy, stifling air threatening to choke him. Panic was rising in his throat, fear of suffocating trying to take over his mind. Sherlock forced himself to take a deep breath, which confirmed that while the air he was breathing was stale and warm, it was fresh enough to breathe. He was hooded — which was a very good sign, well, comparatively.

He was sitting up, with his hands bound behind him and his knees bound together. Additionally, there was something around his waist — a chain, to judge by the weight. Likely it was fastened to the bars he was leaning against. Sherlock couldn't see anything at all, but that didn't mean there was nothing to discover about his surroundings. 

The tile floor beneath him was cold and gritty. The texture beneath his fingertips suggested cheap institutional tile, and not tile that had seen frequent cleaning. The air was cold and damp, but more than that, it smelled: of damp, of mold, of household chemicals left and forgotten. He shuffled his feet against the tile and listened to the room's echoes. The room sounded relatively large and open, but muffled. Sherlock tilted his head and moved his feet again. Ah, a low ceiling. He was in a basement then. Moriarty had a safehouse. 

Stupid. He could not believe how incredibly stupid they'd been. John Watson's team had supposedly been functioning as a unit for five years, and still they nearly let Moran's men — that's who it was, obviously, Jim Moriarty's right-hand man — take them entirely by surprise. In fact, if Sherlock hadn't irritated Porter to the point that he decided to go off and have a sulk, they wouldn't have got any warning at all.

There was the sound of voices overhead. No one came downstairs; instead, they remained near the stairwell, talking .

"She's still not telling us anything." The man's voice was ragged-edged — either he was ill, or he'd abused his throat for years.

"Shit. Lock her back up." The second voice was higher-pitched, with an Irish lilt. 

"What are we gonna do with her?" 

"I'm going to stop asking so nicely."

The voices faded with footsteps as the door to the basement closed and the two men walked away. 

Sherlock tilted his head back, trying to judge the size of the house from the sound of the echoes. Not terribly large, he thought. He pulled himself straighter, wincing at the strain in his shoulders. By turning his wrists, he could feel the bars he was attached to, but there was something wrong. After a second he realised: he was tied on the outside of something. He could feel where the cage floor was a little higher than the tiles he sat on. 

A few minutes later, he heard footsteps coming down the stairs. Sherlock considered feigning unconsciousness again, but decided against it. 

"Hold still." It was the first man, the one with the gravelly voice. Sherlock heard a soft murmur in response, but not the words, followed by the sound of a fist hitting a body. "Yes, you will," he said. 

There was a loud clang that sounded like a cell door — was there a second one on the other side? The jailer walked away, leaving only the sound of an occasional pained gasp.

Sherlock leaned forward as far as he could manage without wrenching his shoulders, trying to listen to the departing footsteps, to follow the path they took on the floor overhead. One of his feet slipped on the floor, sending him back into the metal bars with a grunt.

"Is someone there?" The voice belonged to a woman — no doubt the one who wasn't talking to their captors. Her accent and her voice said public school as clearly as if she'd introduced herself while wearing her school colours. St. Pauls, possibly. 

"Obviously you heard me moving, so you know that there is," Sherlock said, his voice rusty from a dry throat.

There was a pause, then what might under the circumstances have been considered a laugh. "Fine. Who _are_ you?"

"Victor," Sherlock said. It was a moot point — if his captors had even a modicum of sense they'd have taken his identification and would know exactly who he was. "And who are you?"

"Katie," she said. "I'm a journalist."

Sherlock laughed. "I didn't think we still had journalists. Who are you reporting for?"

There was a pause before she answered, making him think she was debating whether or not to tell him a lie. "No one, right now. You're right — there aren't exactly many opportunities in the field these days."

Sherlock knew there had been attempts to maintain the trappings of civilisation. There were jobs to be had, paid out in food or ammunition from people who’d secured stockpiles or who had well-defended land for farming. He shouldn’t have been surprised at the idea of news reporters. Suddenly, he wondered if she was working for Mycroft.

"You made a poor choice of interview subjects," he said, wondering if she’d been foolish enough to walk into the compound voluntarily. If she had useful skills or was attractive, Moriarty’s standing orders would be to take her and keep her safe for sale or trade. If she could be a useful hostage, they’d be less gentle. Hostage, then — or perhaps she’d just antagonised them. In Moriarty’s absence, Moran and his men would be nervous. Touchy. Perhaps she wasn’t so clever, then, if she came here to get an interview, but she was still potentially useful.

Her breathing was easing — whatever they'd done had been temporary discomfort then, suggesting that she did have some value. "I don't interview men like Jim Moriarty," she said. "I report on them." Which explained how she wound up here, then.

Idiot. Brave idiot, but still.

Of course, that was assuming she wasn’t a plant — either cowed into helping them or actually a part of their organisation. Human trafficking in this new world was an equal opportunity profession, after all. If he could _see_ her, he’d know which it was. He tried to look at deciphering her motives solely by voice as a challenge, but he wasn’t the man he’d been five years ago. When the dead walked and the rule of law — _civilisation_ — crumbled, he’d learned fear. He was more vulnerable than he'd been. Mycroft couldn’t wave a hand and set the wheels of government in motion to save Sherlock the way he once had.

"You’ll have a prize-winning story, assuming you survive," Sherlock said, giving his voice a sharp, scathing edge to provoke her. He leaned against the wall, futile as it was to think he could actually hear the telling sound of her breathing, now that the wheezing had ceased.

"There are worse things than death," she said, subdued. Sherlock couldn't argue. These days, death was preferable to any number of other outcomes. "Besides, you're one to talk. At least I was awake when they brought me in here."

"You saw them bring me in?" Sherlock asked, before he could stop himself. He needed to know how many there’d been, their weapons, whether they’d acted with military discipline or were just rabble.

"I heard. It woke me up," she said. "I didn't think you'd still be here, to be honest. There have been a few others, but you're the first person who's been here more than a few hours." Useful, but not what he needed to know. "So what do you have that they want?"

Sherlock hesitated. So she was hooded, too. Finally, he said, "I was picked up by some soldiers. They had a prisoner. It might have something to do with him." He’d let her fill in the intentionally obscure blanks. At least that would tell him _something_ of her psychology — and maybe he could find out if Moran was hiding the fact that Moriarty had been captured.

"Soldiers?" Her voice took on an edge, a mix of suspicion and — was that hope, possibly? "There aren't any soldiers anymore. Or if there are, they're all working for Moriarty these days."

"I believe you’re confusing ‘soldier’ with ‘slaver’. Get your terminology right," he snapped, knowing that at least one of them would sooner die than work for Moriarty. John Watson was like some remnant of the old world, somehow clinging to his humanity despite everything that had happened.

"So _you_ weren't one of their prisoners then," she said. "Interesting." It occurred to him that he wasn't the only one peering around the corners looking for information. "I'm just telling you what I've seen. Moran's in command here when Moriarty is gone, and he's a bloody martinet. The men here who weren't soldiers before, are now."

Sherlock let out a breath, trying to find refuge in logic, but the mere thought of John had cracked his composure. The thought that he’d survived five years in an absolutely _unscientific_ living hell only to find John Watson and then lose him almost immediately was utterly unacceptable. Worse, he knew John would never be allowed to come after him, much as he would most likely want to. He was too valuable as a doctor, with critical knowledge that was in high demands on all sides of the chaos. Seven wouldn’t let John out of his sight, and once John got to Mycroft...

So, there’d be no help from that quarter. Mycroft’s other soldiers were too few to organise a rescue mission. But John’s three companions — there was potential there. All three were special forces, and all three had survived, which counted for far more than mere military training.

"Militia, perhaps, but not soldiers," Sherlock said quietly, just loudly enough that the woman — Katie? — could hear him. "They’re afraid of Moran, and their loyalty to Moriarty is based solely on self-gratification: what he can offer them. Some may even have issue with what they’re doing here, but believe they have no other choice. Five years ago, there’s every chance that they were ordinary, unremarkable people who’d never think of picking up a weapon, much less selling other humans to survive. Do you understand?"

"Are you suggesting you can offer them more than Moriarty?" Her voice lowered in response to his. "If we were talking about the men in the field, maybe. I don't think there's much human left in the men here in this compound." She made a shaky sound, somewhere in the borderlands of a laugh and a sob. "You'd have about as much luck appealing to a Risen's better nature."

Pushing aside the instinct to huff in irritation — why couldn’t people just do as he said? — he insisted, "It may be our only hope, so I suggest you consider everyone here with whom you’ve had any dealings. There’s every chance that one of them can be turned to our purposes. Start at the beginning. Tell me everything about the ones you’ve seen so far."

 

~~~

 

Porter approached the rendezvous slowly and well ahead of schedule. He spent what felt like hours climbing stairs to gain height so he could scan ahead and identify his next waypoint, looking for any sign of the enemy’s perimeter guards. He spotted two, both snipers, and spent almost twenty minutes verifying that neither one had a radio. They’d fire on a visual signal then, probably some subtle, natural-seeming motion.

Their lines-of-sight didn’t match up for one target, either. They were prepared for a small-group attack. So really, Porter was saving 3C, Sev, and Cray by doing this solo.

Only two snipers meant that they’d be prepared for two shots each. Either the enemy had only two sniper rifles — unlikely — or only two shooters with the skill required to not accidentally hit Moriarty’s men. The first was perched in the ruins of a parking garage. Porter snapped the man's neck before he even knew anyone was there. The second was older, more wary. Porter was almost up behind him, knife in hand, when the man spun and tried to raise his weapon. But a sniper rifle, while deadly, was too unwieldy for proper use in close quarters; Porter slapped the barrel out of the way and stabbed his knife up under the man’s jaw, a silent, deadly thrust that was quick enough to take him down before he could pull the trigger.

After each kill, took a few minutes to strip their useful gear, especially their ammunition, and cache it. If he managed to survive, he’d retrieve it later. In fact, upon consideration, he added most of his weapons to his cache, along with his body armour. No sense handing Moriarty’s men a perfectly good SA80 and his handguns. He would’ve left his boots if that hadn’t meant he’d be walking over rubble barefoot. Good boots were damned near as precious as ammunition.

The only weapon he kept was a small knife, barely more than a box cutter. That, he could smuggle in, as long as there wasn’t a body cavity search. 3C would be furious at him for it, in fact — he could tape it to deal with rough edges, but there was no way to sterilise it — but to hell with it. Porter was doing this for 3C’s damned boyfriend.

Sometimes, he hated his bloody career choice.

Ten minutes after the meet time had passed, he walked into the overgrown remnants of Regent’s Park. Weeds and brush choked most of what had been parkland. The boating lake had gone murky and reeked of algae and rot. Wasn’t that a sight? The Thames ran cleaner than it had in five hundred years, and the pristine, artificial lakes had turned into swamps.

The jaws of the trap closed around him slowly. The enemy were good enough to catch civilians, but he got a good head count as each one reacted to his presence: four of them, not insurmountable but definitely inconvenient. Better was that they were armed with an assortment of weapons, which meant they couldn’t share ammo between them. They might be running near-dry on some of those weapons.

Alone and unarmed, he walked right to where four more men were waiting: three in urban camo, one bound and hooded. The prisoner was tall and thin, and Porter tried to compare what he recalled of Sherlock’s build to the prisoner, but something wasn’t matching up. Sherlock had always been wrapped up in that dramatic coat of his, except when 3C was around, but he hadn’t been _this_ thin.

One of the men made a show of looking around Porter. "Looks like you forgot something."

Porter gave him a thin smile. Was that Moran? Whether he was or not, he was the one in charge here, to judge by the body posture of the other two. Porter glanced behind him, giving him a chance to verify his initial headcount: the four men behind him were in position now. At this point, the only way out was through. "You didn't really think I'd walk in here with him alone, did you?" he said. "You'll get your pet psycho back when me and my friend there are safely away."

"I don't think you understand how this works," the leader said. "You give us Mr. Moriarty, or your friend here dies." He pressed the muzzle of a matte black Glock 37 into the hooded man's chin for emphasis. The .45 calibre round would turn his brain to red mist.

"Go ahead and shoot him," Porter said. "Doesn't matter to me. He's a poncy git. But if you do, you'll get your Mr. Moriarty back a piece at a time."

Almost amiably, the leader nodded. "Fair enough. I never liked either Holmes much anyway," he said, and gave his prisoner a shove to the side. He barely looked as he dropped his aim and fired, shattering the prisoner’s left kneecap with chilling accuracy. Porter had a second to hope his memory was good — or else 3C would kill him for getting Sherlock shot. The screams from under the hood were muffled, high-pitched, and agonised; the man went down in a heap, thrashing for just a moment before he went still, sobbing, as if lack of movement would control the pain. Porter had seen that reaction before.

Right on cue, the Glock swung around, aimed not at Porter’s head or chest but at his gut — a fatal wound, these days, but one that would take its time to bring death’s mercy.

"Let’s see just how much they value a fellow soldier, then," the leader proposed, and nodded to his men, who immediately closed on Porter. He turned away, calling back, "Bring him." 

_So far, so good,_ he thought, right before the stock of a cheap AK47 knockoff slammed into his kidney, dropping him to his knees.

 

~~~

 

"I’ve always thought that was one of the ugliest buildings in London," Watson muttered from where he sprawled in the broken window of what had once been an expensive riverside flat. "The presence of zombies in the world doesn’t make it any prettier."

Bond huffed in amusement and tugged the field glasses away. "Security?" he asked, scanning for the snipers that he knew would have once been up on the roof and in strategic windows.

"Defence perimeter, at least nine guards."

The roof looked clear. Bond swung the field glasses down a bit, taking note of the Union Flag flying on a flagpole that hadn’t been there last time he’d been home. Of course, last time he’d been home, the world hadn’t been infested with Risen. "This feel legit?"

"Does anything?" Watson countered.

"True," Bond admitted, scanning farther down until he spotted the soldiers on the ground. They _looked_ legitimate. Their urban camo uniforms matched, their weapons seemed well-tended, and they were patrolling in overlapping patterns just random enough that anyone attacking would have trouble finding a hole. _He_ could do it, but he had the advantage when it came to MI6.

Porter probably could have, too, the bastard. He’d been here far more often than Bond had.

"All right. We go on the theory it’s legit. If not..."

"Shoot everything that moves. Got it," Watson acknowledged.

They went back downstairs, to where Cray was standing guard over their prisoner. They’d traded off dealing with Moriarty, who’d proven to be troublesome enough that Bond had considered just cutting his throat, if not for this mess with Sherlock and the so-called British government-in-exile. Cray gave them a questioning look.

Bond nodded to him. Cray’s grin was more than a little relieved, and he dragged Moriarty up to his feet with something like good cheer.

They crossed Vauxhall Bridge out in the open, all the way to a six-foot gap that had been blown from one side to the other. Risen protection, Bond figured, noting that the soldiers on the other side had sturdy metal plates they could drop across the gap. There were three soldiers visibly on duty, but Bond had noted two more in line-of-sight of the bridge, at the far shore. Snipers, he assumed.

"We need to speak to Mycroft Holmes," he said, walking right up to the gap. He kept his hands away from his SA80, trusting that the others were watching the area.

"Who are you?"

Carefully, Bond reached down under his collar and pulled out his identity tags. "Commander James Bond, SBS," he said, lifting the tags. When the soldier across the gap beckoned, he tossed them over. "We have a prisoner to deliver, and news about one of Holmes’ agents."

Whether it was Bond’s rank, their prisoner, or the reference to a current ‘agent’ — if Sherlock could be considered an ‘agent’ rather than an irritating civilian — the soldiers decided to chance it. They used a manual version of very familiar bridging equipment to extend the metal sheet horizontally across the gap, and Bond couldn’t help the twinge of nostalgia he felt as he crossed.

The soldier returned his tags and gestured back at the MI6 building. "Follow the signs to the visitor’s entrance. You’ll need to check your weapons."

 _Like bloody hell we will,_ Bond thought, glancing back at the others. He saw the same resolve in their eyes; legitimate government or not, until they had reason to trust, they’d end up dead before disarmed.

Still, they went quietly through the checkpoint, passing wary soldiers who turned to track their progress across the rest of the bridge and down to what had once been a very busy intersection. The concrete security bollards had been rearranged — not much in the way of vehicular traffic, these days, and they wouldn’t do much against bicycles.

The ground floor windows had all been bricked, which did nothing to improve the look of the building. The glass doors had been replaced by industrial steel. Bond could see where concertina wire had been strung up between new posts, but it had been taken down. Was the area that secure, or were the Powers That Be simply that cocky about their safety?

Alert for any threats, he pulled open the door and led the way inside. Cray and their prisoner followed, with Watson on rearguard.

The air inside was stale — the price for holing up in a building with metre-thick windows that didn’t open. In a surreal mockery of a tourist trap, there were actually tables set up — with _tablecloths_ — to channel polite visitors inside to where more soldiers stood on guard, trying to look friendly and mostly failing. On the tables were mimeographed flyers bearing headlines like _Your Government At Work_ and _Protect Yourself from Attack — A Health & Safety Guide for the New World_.

He heard Watson’s soft curse. Five bloody years they’d spent crossing three-quarters of Asia, and _this_ was going on back home? Bond had the momentary irrational urge to toss a couple of grenades and leave, maybe go somewhere that made more sense.

Maybe Sherlock wasn’t the more irritating of the two Holmes brothers.

Gritting his teeth, he went to the guards at the far end of the brochure tables. "Go get Holmes," he said more bluntly than was perhaps politically wise.

"And who are you lot?" the guard demanded arrogantly.

" _Commander_ Bond, SBS," he answered.

The guard snorted. "Yeah. You’ll need to leave your weapons," he said, bending down.

The SA80 was in Bond’s hands without any conscious thought on his part, a comforting weight. Before he’d even taken aim, he heard Watson and Cray go for their guns, covering the rest of the guards. Bond’s idiot stood up, holding a cracked plastic tub in his hands, and froze when he found himself staring at the barrel.

"3C, door," Bond said. "You in the back, go tell Mycroft Holmes he has visitors. Everyone else, don’t even fucking breathe."


	4. Hid Among the Rocks of the Mountains

Fear, Sherlock decided, was a recurring illness, rather than a poison. Just as he’d finally achieved equilibrium, allowing Katie’s somewhat rambling, imperfect memory to give his mind focus, the loud sound of footsteps shattered his peace. He pulled against his bonds instinctively, but so far, all he’d managed to do was to rub his skin raw.

The footsteps drew closer, but stopped before reaching Sherlock. A loud, sharp clang of metal on metal made Sherlock flinch despite himself, and he heard Katie let out a gasp of surprise. "Feel like talking yet?" a male voice — a new one — asked sharply.

Katie made a credible show of bravery, though Sherlock could hear the tremor under her answer: "I have nothing to say."

There was a sharp laugh in response, and the footsteps withdrew. A bad sign, that. Sherlock had hoped for something more — threats, innuendo, anything to imply crumbling discipline among the enemy’s ranks.

As soon as the door to the basement slammed shut, Sherlock heard Katie's sigh of relief. Clearly she'd been expecting worse. "What was that about?" he asked.

"Nothing," she said. "They think I know something I don't."

Sherlock started to suggest that there might be a long list of things that she didn't know, when the door upstairs opened once more. He didn't miss the catch in her breath at the sound, the hint of fear. Perhaps well-founded: he heard something unexpected: the sound of three more sets of footsteps, one of which was slower, more halting. Christ, the lack of visual information was going to drive him mad before this was over.

"Look, Katie. We brought you a friend." It was the man who'd spoken just a moment ago, the new voice. "I'd be careful if I were you. He looks mean." Then he laughed. There was a thud and a low grunt, the sound of a body hitting the tile floor.

Sherlock sat up, fear spiking through him at the thought that they might have thrown a Risen into the room with them. Five years of seeing what happened to bite-victims had achieved what no amount of school and pointless therapy and rehab ever had: He’d found some modicum of empathy. Or perhaps it was simple horror at the thought that _he_ could get bitten and lose everything he was — his intellect — in moments. He stayed quiet, hoping that the Risen, if it was one, wouldn’t know he was there.

He listened as the men left and the basement door was slammed shut again. Katie wasn’t screaming, so either it wasn’t a Risen or it was bound. Not that that would stop a Risen — Sherlock had seen them tear off their own limbs to get at prey. It just took a while. The lack of characteristic attack sounds finally eased Sherlock’s fears enough for him to think rationally again, and he silently berated himself for letting irrational emotions get in the way of logic.

Finally he asked, "Katie? Are you all right?"

"I-I'm fine. I don't know about him, though."

Sherlock heard the sound of movement, then a familiar — albeit unexpected — voice. "I knew it was a set up. There was no way they'd bring you to the drop, not out in the open like that."

"Porter," Sherlock sighed, leaning against the cage bars. Lovely. Instead of John risking himself — though it was a relief that John was safe — he’d got himself one of the Neanderthals instead.

"I don't get a 'thank you'?" Porter said.

"Yes, _thank you_ for going to the trouble of getting yourself caught, too, so now there are two of us to rescue," Sherlock said.

Porter just chuckled in response. "Sounds like they haven't hurt you too badly."

"Not me," Sherlock said. "Katie might have a different story, though."

"Katie. That’d be you, then? Are you all right?" Porter's voice shifted, turning uncharacteristically softer. Wonderful. He’d gone from Neanderthal to white knight, now that there was a woman in need of aid.

"I'm fine," Katie said. That was her stock response. She sounded wary, more wary than she had of Sherlock to begin with. Then again, there was no chance of Sherlock representing a threat.

"She’s a _journalist_ ," Sherlock told Porter. "She’s investigating Moriarty," he added, hoping Porter drew the logical conclusions about her intelligence.

The door opened again, and there were two sets of footsteps, both booted. They paused, and there was the rattling of unfastening chains. "Come on," a voice ordered. "The Colonel wants to talk to you."

"Where are you taking her?" Porter asked, and Sherlock winced at the concern in Porter's voice.

There was no answer, not from the guards nor from Katie. The basement door slammed shut again.

 

~~~

 

"I’m sorry," Mycroft said automatically, staring at the nervous-looking soldier. He put down the telegraph from Baskerville and pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache coming on. "Could you repeat that?"

"Hostage situation in the visitor’s lobby, sir. Three armed men, one claiming to be a ‘Commander Bond’, with an unknown hostage."

 _Sherlock_ , Mycroft thought, closing his eyes. In a world full of impossible Risen (he was far too scientific to think words like ‘zombie’ or ‘undead’) leave it to his brother to antagonise belligerent soldier-types.

"I see."

"Shall we try and..." The soldier faltered.

Mycroft eyed the man, and then reassessed; he was barely twenty if that, with the twitchy, half-disciplined demeanour of someone whose formative years had been shaped not by proper schooling but by the Risen. He’d probably been brought into the civil defence service simply because they needed bodies, rather than for any remarkable skill.

Interior MI6 duty, Mycroft recalled, was supposed to be an easy posting.

"No, let’s attempt to resolve this in a civilised manner," he finally said, standing. Perhaps they were hoping to exchange Sherlock for food or ammunition.

The lifts, of course, hadn’t worked for ages, though MI6 did have limited power for critical functions — primarily computer-related. Five years of walking up and down the emergency staircases had put Mycroft in woefully good shape, and he headed down the three flights without even getting out of breath. At least a few good tailors had survived, and they hadn’t lost their old skills of hand-stitching. They’d been able to take in his suits more than a few inches as the years had passed.

At the ground floor, he stepped out into the foyer and stopped to take in the situation. His guards, identified by their black-and-white uniforms, were all face-down on the floor, stripped of weapons. The oil lamps that provided illumination (since the windows had been secured against Risen attacks) were extinguished by the door but still burned on this side of the lobby, leaving Mycroft feeling uncomfortably exposed.

"Who is it who asked to see me?" Mycroft called, refusing to let a hint of his worry show. Sherlock would have surely said something by now, if he could have. If he was even present.

"Commander James Bond, SBS." Out of the darkness by the entry doors slid a set of metal identity tags. "Are you Holmes?"

Gesturing for the soldier to fetch the tags, Mycroft turned to face the voice. Late thirties or early forties, teasing hints of multiple accents, though primarily British and Scottish. Educated. Quite possibly an officer, though the veracity of that would remain in question until Mycroft could have someone search the computers.

"I am," he said. "This was unnecessary, Commander. The rule of law still provides in some parts of England, at least." He took the offered identity tags, raising a brow as he felt their weight. Not cheaply stamped aluminium. The rubber silencing grommets were long since gone, but he could see the wear pattern where they’d once been.

"Sorry," Bond said sharply, "but we’d rather not disarm for anyone. In case you haven’t noticed, the world’s gone to shit."

Hiding a sigh, Mycroft asked, "May I approach?"

"Go ahead. Watch you don’t trip," he added, and Mycroft could hear the smirk in his voice.

 _Lovely. A soldier’s humour,_ Mycroft thought, hiding his sigh. He crossed the room, pleased at least that none of the building’s security force had managed to get themselves shot, and came to the edge of the light. "What did you wish to discuss?"

Instead of answering, Bond said, "3C?"

Mycroft heard a sound he couldn’t immediately identify — a mechanical _whirr_ — for a few seconds before a small, bright light came on beyond the information brochure tables, illuminating the intruders.

There were four of them — well, properly only three soldiers, all in somewhat ragged, blackened armour and uniforms. The fourth was their prisoner: _not_ Sherlock but someone smaller, bound and hooded. Something about him was familiar, but Mycroft let it pass, knowing his mind would supply him with the information soon enough.

Bond himself was a threat, Mycroft immediately identified. Not only was he the type who’d kill without hesitation; he’d been pushed nearly to the breaking point by this new world. Mycroft had seen his type far too many times in the last few years. They were useful — utterly fearless, usually very competent to have survived for any length of time — but they were far too volatile to be considered safe.

The other two were in little better shape — perhaps even worse, given that they were both deceptively small. One even wore glasses, for heaven’s sake, though how he’d managed to keep them intact, Mycroft couldn’t imagine.

"What can I do for you?" Mycroft asked, deciding not to extend the invitation to join the civil defence force unless these three proved to be extraordinarily useful.

"We’re here about your brother," the one holding the crank-operated lantern said. Bond darted a glance in his direction, though he was too alert to let himself be distracted for long.

"That" — Mycroft nodded at their small captive — "is not my brother."

"No. He’s the one your brother was apparently hunting," Bond said with a quick nod. The thinnest of the soldiers reached down and pulled off their prisoner’s hood.

Jim Moriarty glared up at Mycroft, snarling around a rag tied across his mouth.

 _Oh, Sherlock_ , Mycroft thought, feeling a hint of despair. Years of work, and it was about to be brought down by his ever-troublesome little brother.

 

~~~

 

Porter had gotten fairly good at keeping track of time with no external cues. Even hooded and in the dark, he estimated that maybe an hour had passed before they brought the woman — Katie — back downstairs. There were just two sets of footsteps, and only one in boots, heavy on the wooden stairs.  He sat still and listened. Sherlock had finally stopped talking about twenty minutes prior — Porter was starting to wish they were gagged as well as hooded. For now they both were quiet.

"Here, drink," said the rougher voice, and Porter heard Katie choke and then swallow. The bars he was tied to rattled as she fell against them, and he heard a small gasp of pain. He forced himself to remain impassive, muscles staying loose and joints relaxed.

A moment later, his hood came off, and he blinked at the sudden brightness. The man, who was wearing a balaclava, thrust a water bottle against his mouth with the same command to drink. Porter did, and even though the water was tepid and a little stale-tasting, it felt like heaven as it trickled down his throat. He lowered his head, not looking around, although every instinct was screaming that he should. He didn't want to do anything that would prompt them to put the hoods back on.

"You've thought of everything," Sherlock said. "I can truthfully say I've never been treated better as a prisoner."

Porter ducked his head lower to hide his grimace, willing Sherlock to shut the hell up. Their jailer didn't respond, and a moment later went upstairs — leaving them all unhooded.

As soon as the door slammed shut, Porter lifted his head and looked around the room. The light wasn't nearly as bright as it had seemed at first, but he could see enough. The floor was dirty green tile, and beyond it, dim shadows that showed him only that he was in an open room interspersed with pillars. It was fairly large as basements went, and there were small windows near the ceiling. Not a jail after all, then.

Looking up, he could see that he was tied to a cage of some sort, but on the outside of it. The door was unlocked and stood open. It was a small cage, large enough for a man to stand up and sit down, but little more. There was a bucket in the corner of the basement; he could guess the planned use. Sherlock was about two metres away, tied to a similar cage and sulking.

Katie was tied next to Porter, to the same cage, and was looking at him with wide eyes. "Don't worry," he said, trying to sound comforting. "We'll get out of this." She didn't look quite like she believed him, and he couldn't blame her. All three of them were bound at the knees and with their hands behind their backs, with an additional chain around each of their waists, holding them to the cages. It made perfect sense — they could be unfastened and made to walk without ever completely freeing them.

Figures they'd have to be taken captive by competent captors.

Porter heard a hitch in Katie's breath and looked down at her. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," she said. He studied her closely. Her hair was a tangled mess, and her eyes were red. From the way she was holding herself away from the bars, it was easy to guess that she might have been beaten, but for what? She was pretty — more than pretty, even with unwashed hair and dirty clothes — and he forced himself not to think about what else she might have faced in captivity.

"Did they hurt you?" he asked, but he knew the answer. What mattered was how she responded.

She lifted her chin. "Yes, but I'm okay." She wasn't a soldier, but she was a fighter. Porter could see that in her eyes — more than a hint of steel under the fear.

For the first time in several days, he smiled. It felt odd and unfamiliar. "Good girl. We're going to get out of here. I'm not going to let them hurt you again. Do you believe me? "

Katie just looked back at him for several minutes, and suddenly it seemed vital that she say yes. He'd made the same promise to easily half a dozen people through the years, but this time, this one time, she had to believe him. She must have seen something reassuring, because she slowly nodded.

"This is very touching," said Sherlock, "but how exactly do you plan to get us out?"

Porter looked over at him and wished for a way to wipe the smirk off his face. Instead, he pulled his legs in and got his feet beneath him, rising to a crouch. There was just enough give in the rope around his wrists that he might — not quite. The way his knees were bound, he didn't quite have the leverage to slide the rope past his hips. He stretched his arms until the rope binding them started to slid down just past one of his hips. With a bit more stretch, he could maybe —

"What the hell are you doing? Are you mad?" Sherlock asked.

"I'm getting us out of here," Porter said, straining where the rope had snagged on one of his pockets.

"You can't!"

"You heard Katie," Porter said, pausing long enough to glare at Sherlock. "They've been torturing her up there. What makes you think you're not next?"

"But we haven't learned anything yet," Sherlock said, leaning forward. "We don't know anything about who they all are, or who else Moriarty works with... we have to stay here!"

"Fine then," said Porter, almost managing to ease the rope past his arse. " _You_ stay here and learn things. Katie and I are getting out."

"John will never forgive you if you come back without me," Sherlock said quietly.

Porter slumped. He thought about everything the four of them had been through before Sherlock, how much trust they'd managed to build up. And he weighed that against the look in 3C's eyes when Mary had died. "You fucker," he growled. He pulled the rope back up to the small of his back. "If she gets hurt again, I'm going to hold you responsible."

"Nothing's going to happen," Sherlock said. "We'll be fine at least for the next several hours."

Porter sat back against the bars and leaned his shoulder against Katie's, prepared to wait.

 

 ~~~

 

They were allowed to keep their guns. Watson wasn’t surprised that was Bond’s sticking point — he wasn’t even disappointed. Sherlock's brother was a supercilious prick, but he did at least seem to care for Sherlock, which redeemed him a little bit. They handed Moriarty over to Holmes's men and followed Holmes to what might have, in better days, been a large conference room on the ground floor. He may have let them keep their weapons, but he also apparently wasn't going to let them into the inner sanctum of the British government, either.

Holmes didn’t actually _do_ anything but give orders. His soldiers brought lamps into the room, found a stack of half-empty notebooks and pencils, and left him alone with some hesitation — understandable, given that he wasn’t armed. He was actually wearing a bloody three-piece suit, clean and tailored and even pressed.

He'd asked to see each of their ID tags, and had written down their information and sent it off with one of his soldiers before sitting down at the head of the table and gesturing for them to join him. Watson had long since thrown away his original tags, the ones that could potentially identify him as a doctor, and instead carried the tags of an old squadmate of his, George Blackwood. Cray didn’t even have his original tags; Sev had finally handed Cray a spare set from one of the earliest fallen soldiers, just so he’d have something to prove himself. Now, Watson wondered if Holmes had access to computerised records, and glanced at Cray, who met his eyes and gave a small shrug.

"You have information about my brother, I take it," Holmes said, looking at each of them in turn. They’d spaced themselves out around the table out of habit, covering all sight-lines to the door and to Holmes. Cray, with his knives, was closest; Watson, farthest.

"We ran across him, yes," Sev said. "Travelled with him for a few days. Long enough for him to mention you." Watson watched Sev's expressions carefully. Holmes wasn't likely to be pleased at the news of Sherlock's current whereabouts.

"He wouldn’t have left Moriarty with you. He’s been hunting Moriarty for months." Holmes looked over at Cray, who was paying more attention to the door and the table, rather than Holmes. Cray got like that, Watson had learned; in new situations, he turned quiet, almost invisible, until he was suddenly in your face, knives flashing.

"He didn’t," Sev answered steadily. "Turns out your brother wasn't the only one keeping an eye out for Moriarty. We ran into some of his men two days ago."

Holmes sat up a bit straighter. He hesitated for a moment before asking, "What exactly is your intent in returning to London?"

Watson leaned over the table. "The world went to hell, in case your tailor neglected to inform you. Four British soldiers, where else would we go?"

Sev lifted his hand, and Watson sat back, scowling. "What he means to say is, when the chain of command broke, we decided to come home."

"I count three of you," Holmes said, still in that infuriatingly calm tone of voice.

"The fourth is out there risking his life to get your brother back," Watson snapped, still resenting the way Sev had held him back.

Holmes raised an eyebrow. "Trying to get him back from where, precisely?"

Sev was definitely going to yell at him later. He gave Watson a short look that was enough to tell Watson how irritated he was before saying, "We were getting to that, Mr. Holmes."

"By all means," Holmes said tightly, looking not at Sev but directly at Watson. "Do go on."

Watson looked at Sev, who gave a nearly invisible nod. "We helped your brother capture Moriarty. A few days later, Moriarty's men ambushed us." He kept his tone cold and clinical. "When they couldn't take Moriarty, they took Sherlock instead." Watson's mouth was dry; he didn't even have enough spit to swallow. "The next day they contacted us and offered a trade. Sergeant Porter went instead."

"And who is Sergeant Porter?" asked Holmes.

"Sergeant John Porter, SAS," Watson said.

Holmes’ inhale was sharp. He looked to Sev, who’d gone stone-faced and silent, and Cray, who met Holmes’ eyes with a little nod. "Yesterday," Cray added.

"I see." Holmes folded his hands on the table, fingers tapping for a moment before he went still. "Sergeant Porter went in alone, I take it." It wasn’t a question.

"You sound as if you've met him," Sev said drily.

"He's done this sort of thing before," Watson said.

"Alone," repeated Holmes, "and with no clear idea where Sherlock was being held or what he might be facing?" He rubbed his forehead and just said, "Section 20." Whatever else he might have said was interrupted by a knock at the door. Holmes gave them a thin smile. "Excuse me." He stepped out into the hallway.

Immediately, Cray lifted a hand, signing, _Bad?_ and looking from Sev to Watson and back.

Sev frowned, catching Watson’s eye. He pointedly tugged on the ball-chain for his identity tags. Watson nodded in understanding, wondering if they were going to have to fight their way out. He’d been hiding his identity for the last few years, since they’d all realised just how valuable a doctor was. If Holmes had access to computer records...

Cray tapped the table and questioned Watson with another hand-sign: _Okay?_

Watson shrugged and shook his head. _I don't know_. They both looked at Sev, who picked up the half-gnawed pencil in front of him and tapped the notepad once. A second later, he tapped it twice. _We try to run first, if that doesn't work, we fight our way out._ Watson nodded, and wiped the sweat from his palms against his trousers.

The door opened, and Holmes stepped back in with a file in hand, closing the door behind him. "All a formality, you understand," he said. He sat down, still flipping through the file. Watson fought to keep from grinding his teeth together. "Commander Bond, you have quite an impressive record," Holmes said. "And you as well, Captain Blackwood. Although" — Watson tensed, and forced himself to keep his eyes on Holmes, who continued — "perhaps you can explain to me why our records describe you as being one-point-eight metres tall?"

"All the gear I had to carry in the desert," Watson said, smiling tightly.

"I see," said Holmes. "And dark brown eyes?"

Before Watson could answer, and before any of the three of them could get up to run, one of the younger soldiers burst into the room. "Sir, we have something you'll want to see."

"I gave instructions we weren’t to be disturbed," Holmes said, irritation turning his tone razor sharp.

"Yes sir, but it's about your brother."

Watson stood up, "What about Sherlock?"

Holmes looked daggers at him. "Sit down." Without looking away, he said, "Lieutenant, will you ask Captain Davis to step in here, please?" After the lieutenant left he lowered his voice, and repeated, "I said, sit down, 'Captain Blackwood'. Two of you are not who you claim to be, and until we get that settled, none of you are going anywhere."

Out of the corner of his eye, Watson saw Sev reach for the SA80. Cray shifted in his seat, looking uncomfortable. He was staring at the table as if fascinated by the polished wood grain surface.

Holmes sneered at Sev. "You're not going to shoot me," he said confidently, even though Sev had the SA80 up off the table, and was turning it in his hands.

Then Cray, with an almost casual air, caught Holmes’ right hand and pulled down sharply, jerking Holmes just in reach of the knife he had in his right hand, point to Holmes’ throat.

"I don’t have to," Sev said, giving Cray an approving grin.

"Wait." Watson barely kept from shouting it. "What about Sherlock?" He looked from Cray to Sev, hoping to make them understand.

"An understanding, first," Sev said, giving Watson a serious look. He turned back to Holmes, saying, "If we choose, we walk out of here, at any time. You don’t stop us; you don’t come after us. Agreed?"

"You have nothing to bargain with," Holmes said. "If you kill me, you'll never make it out of here alive."

Sev glanced at Cray, then smiled. "Possibly, but you'll still be dead, won't you?"

Watson gripped the edge of the table, trying to keep his mind focused on the increasingly real possibility that they were going to be fighting their way out of here. "I'd go along with him," he said to Holmes. "He's a mad bastard."

"Did you hear any reports from Israel, Mr. Holmes?" Cray asked very quietly.

"You can tell him about it later," Sev said, throwing another quick grin his way. "Well, Holmes?"

"If _anything_ that happens to my brother can be attributed to you..." Holmes began.

"It won't," Watson said, low and intent. "I may have lied to you about my name, but I am not lying about that."

Holmes lifted his head as much as he dared. He met Watson’s gaze, with no hint of fear in his expression — only the sort of towering irritation that had probably once meant careers would be ending. "Very well," Holmes said, turning his eyes on Cray, since he couldn’t twist out of Cray’s grip to look at Sev instead. "You have my word, you’re all free to leave at any time you wish."

The room was silent for a long, tense moment. Watson's heart was beating in his ears. Finally, Sev murmured, "Cray." Cray let Holmes go and stepped back out of reach, knife still held in a defensive position.

Holmes straightened up, and spent a moment fussing with the line of his jacket, even shooting his cuffs. Watson was seized with the urge to throttle him. "Now. If you gentlemen would care to follow me, perhaps we should all go see what new information we have about Sherlock."

Watson exchanged glances with Sev and Cray, who immediately stood. Sev made a quick circular motion with his hand, covering it by picking up the SA80 again: a signal for them to stay together. Watson nodded at Holmes. "Lead the way."

Holmes went outside, nearly running down a man not in urban camo but in a barrack dress uniform, with an unfamiliar regiment patch and captain’s bars. "Captain Davis," Holmes said. "Your services aren't needed here after all. Thank you."

"Sir." Davis stepped out of the way, looking the soldiers over quickly, assessingly. Watson didn’t see any hint of a signal passed between Holmes and Davis.

For his part, Holmes ignored Davis and led the way out to the foyer, where the lieutenant who’d interrupted earlier was talking to one of his compatriots. When he saw Holmes and the others approaching, he snapped to attention. "Mr. Holmes sir. There's... something outside you need to see."

Holmes' mouth turned down in a moue of distaste. "You can't bring it in here?"

"I — I don't think you want us to," the lieutenant said.

"Very well." Holmes glanced back at Watson and the others, and gestured for them to follow outside.

Outside, barely ten metres from the building, was a corpse with one of its kneecaps nearly shot off. Watson's chest clenched painfully; the body was long and slender, with wild dark hair. Nor was he the only one to see the resemblance. Sev put his hand on Watson's shoulder to steady him.

"That's not my brother," said Holmes. "He's too short by at least three inches."

"No sir," said the lieutenant, and Watson took a quiet, shuddering breath. "It was a Risen, sir. The perimeter shot it down. But it was carrying this." He held out a scrap of paper.

Holmes took it and read, his lips tightening into a thin white line. "Gentlemen. How proficient is your friend Sergeant Porter?"

Cray spoke up before Watson could draw breath. "Very."

"I'd trust him with my life," added Watson. _And with Sherlock's._

"I hope you're correct," Mycroft said. He looked down at the paper in his hand and read it out loud: "'You have two days to turn over Jim Moriarty, or the next one will be Sherlock Holmes.'"


End file.
